Disciplinary Action Page 8

  Dr. Fabian’s classroom was empty as well, though the door was unlocked. Gideon entered to have a look around, uncertain where to look for the boy or if he’d even come to school. He was about to leave when he spotted Cal’s backpack sitting beside a desk at the back, partially open as if he’d been looking for something when he’d left suddenly. Gideon frowned. What would have caused him to leave so quickly that he’d risk leaving his laptop and other electronics in the classroom? He retrieved the boy’s bag, scribbling a note and sticking it to the desk.

  Your bag is in my office - G.

  Gideon walked back to his office on autopilot, his thoughts on Cal and his sudden disappearance. He rounded the corner and ran into a balding older man with a dark beard. He wore a navy polo shirt and khakis that identified him as one of the maintenance staff. Vasily or Vladimir, something Russian. He had a mop and bucket with him, a bottle of window cleaner hooked on his belt, and a rag thrown over his shoulder. “Sir, they call me to clean up vomit in east hall bathroom, but the boy is still in there. He’s very ill, sir. Very. He’s sick…everywhere. Nurse at lunch. You come?”

  Gideon nodded, stomach sinking as he followed the man. When they reached the restroom, the man pointed to the door but wouldn’t go inside. Gideon frowned, pulling open the door and stopping short, the acrid stench of vomit rocking him back on his heels and knocking him backward into memories from his childhood, of his father lying unconscious, beer cans littering the linoleum floor of the trailer. He forced the thoughts away, stepping over a puddle an alarming shade of bright green.

  He rapped his knuckles sharply on the closed door at the end of the row of stalls.

  “Occupied,” Cal called weakly.

  Part of Gideon was relieved to have found the boy, but the rest of him couldn’t help but worry about an illness this abrupt. “Callum, it’s Gideon. Let me in.”

  Gideon listened to the sound of shifting and fabric rustling, but then Cal was heaving again, moaning as his body attempted to rid itself of whatever contents remained inside his belly. “I’m fine. I have a stomach bug. I just need a few more minutes and I’ll be good to go. You don’t have to worry.”

  Gideon didn’t believe him for a second. Cal’s voice was raw and weak, his breathing heavy through the door. In the mirror, Gideon could make out Cal’s legs outstretched, his back propped against the tile walls. “Callum, open this door right now or I’ll break it down.”

  There was a shuffling sound and then the door creaked open. Gideon pushed the door open to find Cal leaning heavily against the porcelain seat. He knelt beside the boy, holding his head in his hands. Cal gazed up at him, miserable. He seemed glassy-eyed, his skin chalky, lips chapped, his whole body cold and sweaty. “Did you take something? Pills? Booze? Don’t lie to me.”

  Cal pulled away from Gideon, pulling his knees to his chest. “Right. Now, I’m a fucking junkie. It’s food poisoning…or a stomach bug. I don’t do drugs.”

  Gideon gave him a stern look, pushing the boy’s hair off his damp forehead. “This isn’t a joke.”

  Cal glared at him. “I don’t find being accused of being a drug addict particularly amusing, so I guess we’re even,” Cal snapped before wrapping his arms around his middle and groaning.

  “How long have you been like this?” Gideon asked. “When did this start?”

  Cal shrugged, his head tipping back onto the tile, lids fluttering as he struggled to keep his gaze on Gideon. “Right after fourth period, I guess.”

  Food poisoning would have come on much more quickly. Gideon supposed it could be a stomach bug, but something about the boy’s pallor concerned him. “Can you walk?”

  A smile crossed Cal’s face, fading as fast as it arrived. “Why, are you going to carry me?”

  Gideon dropped his voice low. “Do you think I won’t, brat? Try me.”

  Cal groaned. “You do that and it’ll just make me an even bigger laughing stock. You’ll make me even more hated than I already am, and then they’ll come for you next.”

  Gideon stood, pulling Cal to his feet with ease, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Then I guess it would be in your best interest to keep your feet underneath you. Walk or I’ll carry you,” he ordered, but there was no real heat behind his words.

  The maintenance man entered the restroom with a grimace. There was a sign declaring the restroom closed just outside the door, but there were no others in the halls. Once they entered Gideon’s office, he helped Cal to the leather sofa in the corner, tucking a pillow beneath the boy’s head. Once he seemed comfortable, Gideon locked the door and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and handed it to Cal who twisted off the top and started to guzzle the water in deep pulls. “Ah-ah. Careful, little bird. Slow down. That cold water will make your stomach cramp. Sip it.”

  “I’m just so thirsty,” Cal said, his voice small.

  “I know. But if you just throw it up again, that won’t help anybody. Do you want me to call somebody to come retrieve you and take you to the doctor?”

  Cal’s eyes went wide. “No!” At Gideon’s arched brow, Cal shrugged. “It’s just that Bastian’s mom can’t really be pulled from work. She already had to miss part of her work day yesterday. I’ll be fine. I just need a little rest. I’ve been a bit under the weather. That’s all. Preparing for final projects and IB exams is just…it’s just a lot. You know?”

  Gideon did know, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that, but what could he say? He didn’t know Cal, and Cal didn’t know him. Not really. Not at all. He couldn’t ask him to bare his soul or to trust him with all his secrets when Gideon would never do the same. Theirs was a hopeless situation that was bound to end in pain and resentment, but a promise was a promise. He’d agreed to be Callum’s Daddy for the next six weeks, and he wouldn’t shirk his responsibilities.

  “I’m going to take you home. You need some rest. I’ll make sure you aren’t marked as absent and that you get your classwork sent to you on Blackboard.”

  Cal did his best to sit up but then groaned, doubling over. “No. I said I’d be fine. Just give me some time.”

  Gideon made a noise of impatience. “I can take you to wherever you call home or I can take you to the hospital. Those are your options. I suggest you choose quickly.”

  The boy chewed on the inside of his cheek as he glowered at Gideon. “Home,” he finally said, sullen.

  “Excellent.”

  Gideon grabbed his keys and his wallet before helping Cal to his feet and taking the boy’s bag. He pulled open his office door only to come face to face with Mrs. Abernathy, who glared at Callum with equal amounts of disdain and distrust.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Callum has fallen ill, as you can see. I’m taking him home, so he can rest.”

  Her features all seemed to bunch in the middle of her face. “Home? What home?”

  Gideon returned the woman’s sour look. “Well, not mine, obviously. I’m taking him to his home.”

  “What home? I heard his home was seized by the government.”

  Callum leaned heavily against the door frame, staring at his shoes. He seemed too tired to even come up with any sort of retort. Gideon couldn’t blame him, the woman was odious. “I’m finding this conversation tiresome. I’ll take the boy to wherever he’s staying and make sure he’s comfortable and then I’ll return. I’m sure you can hold down the fort for an hour or so, can’t you?”

  She scoffed. “I’ve been running this school since before you were born, Mr. Gideon.”

  “It’s Dr. Gideon. Mrs. Abernathy.”

  The woman made a disapproving noise in the back of her throat before turning on her blocky sensible heel and storming off in the direction of the library. “Come along, little bird,” Gideon whispered.

  It took twice as long as it should to get to the parking lot, and by the time he had Cal buckled into the passenger seat, a whole other fine sheen of sweat coated the boy, making his white uniform shir
t stick to him like a second skin. Gideon once more pushed the boy’s hair off his forehead, letting his hand linger longer than necessary just because Cal leaned into the touch, lids closing with a sigh.

  Once Gideon turned over the engine, he turned the AC vents towards Cal, careful not to make it too cold. Cal read off an address in midtown before slumping in his seat, his forehead pressed against the window. Gideon didn’t attempt to hold a conversation with the boy. He clearly needed rest. When he pulled up to a small pale green clapboard house with a neat porch, three hanging baskets full of impatiens, and a set of white concrete stairs leading to a purple door, he rolled to a stop.

  “You’re here, little bird.”

  Cal cracked his eyes open with great effort. “Thanks,” he muttered, opening the door.

  “Wait. Do you still have a cell phone?”

  Cal flushed and pulled out an older model flip phone. Gideon took it, saving his number. “You listen to me. If you need anything, you call me. Understand? I’m sure there’s somebody in that house who will take care of you, but if, God forbid, something goes wrong, call me.” Cal gave a stilted nod, one foot out the door. “No. Don’t nod. Say it.”

  Cal eyed him warily. “If I need anything, I’ll call you.”

  Gideon wasn’t convinced, but it was the best he could hope for under the circumstances. Honestly, he had no idea why he’d just offered up his private number to a boy he’d agreed to see only during school hours. Though, technically, Gideon supposed they’d never really discussed the terms of their arrangement in detail. As soon as the boy was feeling better, Gideon would make it a priority so there were no misunderstandings later.

  He watched the boy until his hand was on the doorknob before pulling away from the curb. He’d only made it a block when he had the sudden urge to turn around and go back, to just check one last time and make sure the boy was okay. But how would he explain that? He couldn’t. He couldn’t explain it to himself. He couldn’t imagine explaining it to anybody else. It had been six long years since he’d been with the same person more than once—it was bound to fuck with his emotions. He pressed his foot down on the gas pedal, putting as much distance between himself and Cal as possible. That was all he needed really. Distance. Perspective.

  Everything would be clearer once he had that.

  Cal was tired, so very fucking tired. His stomach felt like somebody had put his organs in a blender, but he’d finally stopped vomiting some time ago. He didn’t know what day it was or even where he was. He thought he’d made it back to Gideon’s garage, but when he’d opened his eyes he was just walking, walking in the blinding sun. It was crisp and cool, but the sun seemed to be shining right into his eyes, beating down on his face until he was burning up.

  He just needed to keep moving, putting one foot in front of the other. But everything was spinning, and sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his vision. He was on the sidewalk…somewhere. There were lots of people but none he recognized. Just bodies, moving the opposite way down the sidewalk, all in tandem, all out of step with him, as if they’d learned the routine while he’d been sleeping.

  He couldn’t read the street signs, but did it even matter? He had nowhere to go, nowhere to be. He just wandered blindly, the lone man on stage who didn’t know the dance number. He didn’t feel like a person. He felt like a pinball, ricocheting from wall to wall, stumbling over cracks in the sidewalk and curbs that seemed to come from nowhere and random bags of garbage that appeared like obstacles in a video game, there for no other reason than to trip him up.

  He stumbled as his shoulder connected hard with something. “Hey, watch where you’re going, asshole,” a guy yelled, shoving him hard enough to send him face-first into a metal post. Pain exploded in his jaw, and he wondered if his tooth was gone. He poked at it with his tongue, stomach churning painfully as his mouth filled with copper. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he was dead and this was hell and this was his life now.

  He clung to the metal post, pressing his forehead to the painted green surface, grateful for the coolness on his overheated skin. How could he be hot and cold at the same time? Hungry and sick at the same time? It had to be hell, right? Only some demon could make you feel everything and nothing all at once. He was so thirsty but the thought of anything in his gnawing empty belly made him groan.

  Why hadn’t he stayed close to Bastian’s house? Just in case? They probably wouldn’t have noticed him in the crawl space under the porch. At first, the idea of sharing the space with the family of possums they’d seen under there a few weeks ago had seemed terrifying. But now, he’d consider sharing the space with a thousand cobras if it meant he could just lie down and not be afraid.

  “You okay, baby?” a kind voice asked from beside him.

  Cal forced his lids open. “What?” he mumbled.

  A plump elderly black woman in leopard print glasses, and a long black dress and coat frowned at him. “What’d you take, sugar? Meth? Oxy?” She put her hand on his head, and he whimpered, leaning into her touch. “Child. You are burning up. Why do you babies do this to yourselves? How’d you even get this far from home in this fancy uniform? Can I call somebody for you?”

  “Nobody cares,” he whispered, heart shredding as he acknowledged the truth of his words, blinking tears from his eyes.

  There had never really been a time in his life when somebody had loved him, when they’d cared whether he lived or died. He was nobody’s favorite person. Nobody had ever been truly happy to see him. Not really. If he died on the streets, would anybody even notice he was gone? Had anybody noticed at all? How long had he even been gone? He didn’t know. Everything was just bleeding together like some muddy mess.

  “Oh, now, that can’t be true. A handsome boy like you. I bet your parents are very proud of you.”

  A giggle erupted from somewhere before quickly turning into a sob. “They’re dead. They are all dead.”

  It wasn’t true, but it wasn’t a lie either. His mother and grandparents were dead, and his father would never see the outside of a prison cell. Nobody else even knew of his existence.

  He slid down the pole and pulled his legs to his chest, close enough to the street to feel the heat and stench of the passing car’s exhaust. He leaned his head back, eyes falling closed. “You can’t stay there, sugar. It’s not safe.”

  “Melba, leave that boy alone. Look at him bleeding all over himself. You can’t help every damn junkie you find on the street, especially one that looks like he can take care of his own self,” a man’s voice boomed.

  The woman gave a sigh and pressed something into his hand. “Bless you, child. Take care of yourself. I’ll pray for you.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said, slipping into darkness.

  A car horn brought Cal awake with a start, eyes flying open only to have a bright white light burning his retinas. He held up his hand, head swimming. He peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth as he tried to get his bearings. It was dark out. He sat in a pool of light from the streetlamp overhead. He shivered, realizing his jacket was gone…and his shoes and socks. He looked frantically for his bag, realizing that it sat open against the brick wall of the building just two feet away. He lurched himself towards it, still too dizzy to stand.

  His laptop was gone. His tablet, too. So were the chargers. His crappy burner phone was still there though. He gave a hollow laugh, slipping it into his pocket and untucking his shirt to protect it.

  He managed to pull himself to his feet but could only lean against the building. His eyes weren’t working right. Nothing was working. Maybe his blood sugar was high? Or low?

  Panic ripped through him as he realized what else was no longer in his backpack, dropping him to the ground like a stone to dig through the ripped up remains. His insulin. His insulin was gone. His test kit. Gone. He had nothing. He had literally nothing. No money. No medication. No friends. No help. No shoes or clothes. He was a type one diabetic. Insulin wasn’t optional. His body didn’t naturally produce it
. Insulin kept him alive. When had he last dosed? What time was it? Where even was he?

  “Where am I?” he managed to ask a group of people walking by. They snickered but didn’t otherwise answer. Cal didn’t blame them. How many times had he walked across the street to avoid homeless people? Some would say this was karma. Maybe it was. He let his eyes fall closed, just resting them for a moment or two, trying to give his brain time to catch up, time to think, to form some kind of cohesive thought.

  When he opened his eyes once more, a set of golden eyes stared at him, close enough for Cal to yelp. It was a dog. A great big black pit bull with huge white scars across its face. Cal narrowed his eyes at the stocky beast. A hellhound? Cerberus? The great beast was surely a harbinger of death, sent from the beyond to ferry him across the river Styx. Cal giggled. The dog tilted its head and whined, seeming as lost and confused as Cal.

  “Are you real?” Cal whispered before erupting in another giggle.

  Jesus. He really had lost it. The dog whined again, pushing its nose against Cal’s cheek. He held up a hand, letting the dog bump his head under it for a scratch. “Did nobody want you either?”

  The dog dropped down beside Cal, resting his square head on Cal’s knee. He leaned his head back against the brick wall, letting his eyes fall shut as he stroked the dog behind the ears. At least he wouldn’t die alone. It wasn’t like there was anything left for anybody to steal.

  He didn’t think he’d fallen asleep, but suddenly, there was a flashlight in his eyes and a boot kicking at his bare foot. “Hey, kid. You can’t sleep here, and you need to put that dog on a leash or animal control’s gonna take him.”

  “Where’s here?” Cal croaked, his head lolling to his shoulder to avoid the harsh light. When the flashlight lowered, Cal saw a man in a policeman’s uniform and a rain slicker. It was only then he realized it was raining and he and the dog were sopping wet. He should have been freezing, but somehow, he felt like his skin was on fire.